I made it into the final round of NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge. I was very happy to do so, as many very worthy writers and stories did not make it this far. I may have panicked a bit, to be honest, as it is my first time in this competition and I definitely did not feel practiced or good enough to make it this far. However, I determined to give it my best go.

The final round is a 24 hour deadline, based on three random prompts. The prompts for this round were:

Genre: Open
Character: A fisherman
subject: Jealousy

From that, this is the story I came up with. I hope you like it.

***

The Loaves and the Fish

During a time of grief, loneliness, and regret, Camille gives up a life of abundance to join a Community that cares for her.

*

The interview room was warm and inviting. Soft, deep cushions adorned the two large sofas. A round wooden table with four chairs stood in one corner. The walls, soothing greys and blues, held landscapes signed by a serene, if inscrutable, hand. Camille sat at the table, waiting for her questioning to begin.

“Tell me about yourself, Camille.” Martin tucked himself into the chair opposite Camille at the table, folding his hands properly in front of him. His navy suit was tailored and subtle. Gold cuff links in the shapes of crosses held the French cuffs of his crisp white shirt snug, and he wore a simple gold band on his left ring finger. Camille gazed at these trappings briefly, then blinked and looked away.

“I grew up here, but moved to the city for college.” She paused, but Martin cleared his throat impatiently. “I only moved back to Albany eight months ago. I…came back for a funeral.”

*

The casket was halfway lowered to its final resting place when Camille stepped to the edge. Onto the casket, she dropped not flowers, but brightly colored, shining bass-fishing lures. A little blue fish with a triple hook at its head, a rubbery frog with two legs that flopped and made a faint thud as it hit the highly polished wood, an imitation water plant that looked like a wig for a miniature Cousin It. That one was the one that made her cry. One of the few times she went out fishing with Dad and Adam, her brother had put the rubbery weed on top of the blue fish’s head, creating a pantomime for her. She smiled at the rare memory of laughing Adam, who was too old to play with and too different to befriend. Only minutes later, bored with the slow sequence of cast and reel, Camille had snuck off to lie under a tree, gazing at cloud-shapes and losing herself in one of her countless books.

*

“You were close with your brother, then? And your parents?” Martin shuffled some of the papers in front of him, and then looked at her with a stern expression. Camille lowered her eyes to the table, and pinched the flowers on her simple calico skirt between her fingers.

“I – wasn’t like them. They loved me, but didn’t understand me. I felt the futility; I could be successful at everything the rest of the world deemed important, but I could never be Adam.”

*

The gulf between Adam and Camille seemed to grow with the years. Camille was interested in academics, in the study of ancient worlds, in travel and in exploration. Adam and her parents were content with their rural lifestyle, running their small bait and tackle store at the edge of Rensselaer Lake. Returning from University on weekends, Camille watched her father and her brother sort their tackle boxes. They would peek inside the picnic lunches that Mom packed for them. They were easy in the way they talked and laughed together. Worst of all were Mom’s bright eyes whenever she gazed at Adam. The favoritism was apparent, and Camille’s resentment grew. Mom passed away during Camille’s senior year, and Camille was left with Dad and Adam’s gruff, short phrases and held-back tears.

They looked confused, if cluelessly proud, when Camille landed her dream job at an internationally acclaimed museum in the City. After that, weekend visits became fewer and the silences longer. The last visit was after Dad had followed Mom to Albany Rural Cemetery. Adam and Camille spent two silent days, Adam in his comfortable bedroom and Camille in the ‘guest room’, entirely cleared of her childhood toys and books. They ate together, meals brought to them by Adam’s neighbors. Adam attempted to break the ice by showing Camille his new Loomis fishing rod. Camille realized that the rod cost the same as a pair of her Christian Louboutin shoes. Ridiculously, that made the divide between them seem endless. When she left that day, it was the last time she ever hugged her stranger-brother, 10 years older and centuries removed.

*

“And how did you become acquainted with our little community, Camille?” At that question, Camille perked up, smiling broadly. “Oh! It was at Adam’s funeral. Everyone had left, besides me. And then Jenny just walked right up to me and wrapped me up in the most loving hug. I knew her, back in grade school, you know.”

*

Jenny and Camille were friends when they were very young. Theirs was the kind of friendship that was close for a brief time, and then dissipated as they matured. Jenny was slight and droop-shouldered. She liked picking flowers and talking. Camille was too caught up in the worlds of her books for much conversation, and eased away from Jenny’s loquacious overtures. Camille was therefore surprised and grateful at the show of compassion Jenny gave at Adam’s funeral. Over the course of the next several weeks, Jenny became Camille’s backbone; she began by helping run the bait and tackle store. She stayed a few nights a week at the small house Camille’s parents, and subsequently Adam, had left to her. She did most of the cooking and all of the cleaning.

Jenny was very religious, and spent a great deal of time reading her Bible and books of poetry, which she left lying around the house. As Adam had not read much and neither had Camille’s parents, they were the only books present. Camille, wandering aimlessly through the house, first fingered the gilt covers of the bibles as she walked by them. She began to pick up the books, reading snippets here and there. One day, Camille found a slip of paper tucked into a bible. On it was written a poem by Cristina Rossetti, which brought her to tears;

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

After that, Jenny and Camille spoke every evening about Jenny’s church. Within weeks, Jenny had shown Camille how to pray, and eventually they did so together. Jenny introduced Camille to the Community, and showed her the growing farm where they all lived and worked together. Camille found herself letting go of old resentments. She felt at peace for the first time in her life.

*

“The six month waiting period is standard for all new members of our Community. I know that Jenny has spoken to you of the conditions for Community membership. I’d like to hear your thoughts on it.” Martin’s pen tapped, slowly but forcefully, against his notepad.

“Yes, I understand.” Camille replied carefully. “I believe in our Lord and Savior with all my heart. I believe he sent me to the Community to save my life, to bring me home. I realize how superficial life in New York is. Even the hipsters are materialistic, though they feign disdain. I want to be here now. I want to make a home, have chance again…a family.”

Martin looked Camille in the eyes for several long breaths. Nodding, he pushed a paper toward her. “Very well. This document gives the Community all rights to the bait and tackle store.” He placed another next to the first. “This one to Adam’s house. And this one,” he moved a third paper toward her, “to your apartment in the city and all assets within it. Including any artwork, jewelry, and …your shoe collection.”

Camille smiled again. “All shoes and fishing rods, yes.” Camille signed all of the forms in front of her. She stood to leave and Martin came to embrace her warmly. “Welcome home, Camille. Let us pray…”

*

Jenny waited until Camille left the interview room, and then approached Martin with a broad smile on her face. Martin had returned to his chair, and leaned back when he saw Jenny enter. Jenny’s face shone as he praised her.

“Well done, Jenny. Camille is lovely, and makes a great addition to the Community. She has faith, because you brought her to a new home when she was hurting and vulnerable. She will always associate you, and the Community, with the Savior’s peace and redemption.’

“Thank you, Martin! I am happy that my old friend has found the path with us.”

“As you should be. Friendship is nearly as important as family. Family, second only to the Lord.” Martin stood, and then placed his hands on Jenny’s shoulders. “And now that you have a friend here with us, perhaps you’ll have a care about trying to leave us again?” His fingers tightened against her thin collarbones. The ring on his left hand – matched to Jenny’s own – dug into her skin.

Jenny held her breath, lowered her eyes and nodded her head.

“‘And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.’ Martin laughed softly. “And you didn’t even need a net.”

I am sitting at my computer. We have had a meal of takeaway (the local “Chippy”, for my American followers). The presents are (mostly) wrapped, and hidden in the bathtub in my room. Stranger things have happened.

I am not a Christian. I do not believe that Christ is the son of God. I don’t believe in God as some omnipotent anthropomorphized entity that throws arbitrary blessings and punishments at human beings. Christmas for me is much like the other holidays (holy days) that my eclectic family observes; we observe Chanukah in reverence and respect for the members of our family who hold the traditions and faiths of Judaism. We observe Yule out of respect for the history and traditions of Nature worship. We celebrate Christmas out of love, respect, and tradition for the great majority of our family who are Christians, who believe in Christ according to their denominations and observances, and because of the social and cultural associations we have with the joys of Christmas.

As a result of that love, respect, and tradition, it won’t surprise any of you who know me to know that so much of my love for this season is about my Mom.

Mom loved all things Christmas. In fact, from the middle of November until after the New Year, Mom was in her happy place. She was so amazingly quirky about how she went about things – Thanksgiving and then Christmas and then the sad putting away of the time. She would bustle around the house, not making everything perfect for everyone else, but making everything just the way she liked it. Our tree covered in aluminum icicles, so thick that you couldn’t see the ornaments hidden behind the silvery curtains. The bowls of ribbon candies and mixed nuts set out on every table, as if we were having company at any moment. The music – this might be my most heartrending memory – the music playing loudly throughout the house, on the stereo equipment that my father saved up to buy for a very long time, and Mom’s incredibly sweet, if untrained, voice singing along as she bustled about hanging mistletoe, or making candies.

Here in the UK, I am surrounded by people who love me. I have made incredible friendships with people who are selfless and loving and giving to their core. They are not my family, though. I sit here, healing, not having much energy to bustle about hanging mistletoe and icicles and lights. And I listen to Nat King Cole singing his Christmas Song, and I can hear every single note in my Mom’s voice. Every. Single. Note. I feel both her presence and her absence sharply.

I struggle to make these connections for my children. I want them to feel the joy of tradition, the joy of family in these times. I want them to feel this intensity of emotion when they are reminded of me in years to come. I think these types of memories are the sweetest gifts I have from my Mom. Her pure joy. Her love of us and for the season. I never wanted for that.

Maybe not the singing, though. My children will thank me if they don’t hear my voice in every Note of the Christmas Song. But I can teach them the Christmas Song in Nat’s voice. And I can share with them, every time we hear it, my memories of Mom.